


Swanning

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, One-Shot, post 8.02, strong t rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29081256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Liz inches down the hallway, keeping her footsteps as light and silent as possible, eyes locked on the door at the end of the hall, the last obstacle between the two of them, the final hurdle.This ends tonight.Set anytime after 8.02. Liz finally manages to corner Red after a long game of cat-and-mouse, but before she can finally exact her revenge, she makes a surprising and unexpected discovery about their past that changes everything. One-shot. Strong T rating. Lizzington.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	Swanning

A light breeze ruffles the leaves of the bushes and trees all around Liz, adding their rustling to the low hum of insects and gentle lapping of water nearby, these sounds her only companions in the otherwise silent night.

Liz shifts her weight where she's crouched in the thinly wooded area, hidden from view from the large, rustic house on the other side of a small lake. Her black clothes blend perfectly with the inky darkness of night while the full moon hangs high above in the sky, providing the perfect amount of silver light to see by.

A mournful, solitary bird call briefly pierces the air.

Liz taps her silencer anxiously against her thigh.

A movement on the second floor of the house catches Liz's eye and she watches a light blink on, illuminating a room in the left wing of the house. She listens carefully for any noise apart from the nature sounds surrounding her, straining her ears until she catches the sudden purr of a car engine and the grating crunch of gravel. Liz peers carefully around a thick tree trunk to watch a black Mercedes pull out of the driveway.

Dembe just left.

Now's her chance.

Liz's heart starts to pound, her fingers trembling with adrenaline as she reaches up to tug her beanie further down over her ears. She makes quick work of twisting the silencer onto her gun and tucking it into her waistband at the small of her back, before taking one last steadying breath.

With a final cautious look around the dark woods, Liz creeps out of her hiding place and stalks silently across the backyard, skirting the shore of the small lake, the moonlight glinting off the surface of the water and lighting her way.

Another bird call sounds in the night.

Liz reaches the back door and makes short work of the simple lock in under a minute, slipping soundlessly inside the house. Inside, she closes the door quietly behind her and draws her gun from her waistband to hold it tensely with both hands as she moves swiftly into the shadow of a nearby bookshelf and looks around.

She seems to be standing in between the main living area and the kitchen. Her gaze sweeps coldly over all the homey touches - leather couch, folded blankets, modest-sized TV, diverse assortment of books, dirty dishes in the sink - and the general air of comfort that is only slightly dulled by the moonlight shining in through the high windows, casting the natural wood of the walls and tall ceilings in a cool silver light.

Liz ignores it all and looks in the direction of the stairs leading to the left wing of the house, where she knows the illuminated room to be, straining her ears and listening hard.

A floorboard creaks above her.

There he is.

Liz prowls forward in the dark, keeping to the shadows with her gun drawn as she heads for the source of the noise, her heartbeat thudding loudly in her ears. She creeps up the stairs one by one, wary of any squeaks or creaks of the wood that may alert him to her presence.

Upon reaching the landing, Liz quickly inspects the long hallway, her eyes flitting over each door until they land on the final one at the end of the hall.

Light shines out from the crack at the bottom.

She's got him cornered.

Liz inches down the hallway, keeping her footsteps as light and silent as possible, eyes locked on the door at the end of the hall, the last obstacle between the two of them, the final hurdle.

This ends tonight.

Time seems to slow as she edges closer and closer, drawing slowly nearer to the single thing that she's wanted so desperately for so many months, until she's finally poised directly in front of the door, her heart in her throat, beating like mad.

It's time.

So, Liz raises her gun to chest-level, reaches out, and pushes open the door.

As it swings forward on silent hinges, the first thing she sees is _him,_ standing in front of a mirror on the other side of the small bedroom, no more than a few feet away from her.

Liz takes a step inside.

His head snaps up.

Their eyes lock in the mirror.

"Hello, Red."

(And her blood is positively singing at the sight of him.)

And the second thing she sees is that he's shirtless.

He appears to be tending a wound on his upper arm, one she instantly recognizes from their last meeting, a deep knife cut near his left shoulder, courtesy of the weapon that is currently strapped to her right calf. Liz observes his injured arm outstretched, gauze and antiseptic clutched in the other hand, his back to her as he uses the mirror to help him see, clean, and bandage the cut.

And as Liz slips the safety off her gun, breathing heavily as she prepares to shoot him, kill him, and finally, _finally_ end it all, her gaze slips from his, descending to look first at what she can see of his chest in the mirror - a sight that sends an odd thrill through her chest and sets her fingers tingling - to his back and suddenly she's very distracted.

Liz frowns, her gun lowering slightly as she tries to make sense of what she's seeing. The skin of his back looks…mottled, puckered, textured, the sight reminding her forcefully of _something_ , something eerily familiar that tells her she already knows exactly what the surface of his skin would feel like underneath her fingertips -

Red reacts in the same instant that she does.

As Liz gives a ragged gasp, her right hand leaving her weapon and flying to her own scar hiding under the sleeve over her left wrist, Red is whipping around, moving faster than she's ever seen him move to grab not a weapon to defend himself, but a discarded black button down shirt from the nearby bed, quickly tugging it on to cover his back. He doesn't bother buttoning it, instead leaving the two sides hanging open and giving her a full view of his chest, now facing her, resulting in a sight that takes her breath away in a different way.

(And the fact that he's not self-conscious about his body in the way most men might be, that he only cares about covering the awful scars on his back from her gaze, has her eyes stinging painfully.)

It's the unexpected sensation of a tear slipping down Liz's cheek - shocked at this blunt revelation, this is unanticipated discovery, this _game-changing truth_ , that he was likely burned in the fire that altered both their lives forever, unprepared for just the _idea_ that _he almost died saving her_ \- that has her snapping back to attention.

No. No, this doesn't change a thing.

(This changes _everything._ )

She's still standing here pointing a gun at him and he's still standing there two feet away from her, unmoving and unarmed in an unbuttoned shirt and _she can't breathe_.

Then he speaks for the first time.

And she can't believe what she hears.

"Go ahead, Lizzie."

She can only blink at him, not comprehending his three words for all their simplicity, her mouth hanging open stupidly.

"…What?" she asks dumbly, her voice low and breathy and hoarse all at once.

Red just looks at her, his face kind and understanding, his eyes warm, and the corner of his mouth hitches up in a small smile.

"It's okay, Lizzie," he murmurs again, low and warm. "Go ahead."

And Liz's brain simply can't process this, this anticlimactic moment, this momentous discovery, his calm acceptance of the fact that she is _one finger twitch away_ from shooting him dead.

But her trigger finger is cold and unresponsive.

Liz swallows dryly, almost choking on the stale air in the room, and forces her frozen body to move, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if that will help her limbs to unlock and do the thing she's convinced herself she so desperately wants to do.

But she doesn't understand.

She had expected Red to talk, to chat nonstop like he always does, to fill her ears with nonsense in an attempt to distract her. He should be offering her answers and explanations, taunting and teasing her with precious information, trying to bargain for his life. Where are the vague threats and warnings and thinly veiled desperation?

Wait, no.

No, that's not right.

Now that she thinks about it, Red has never actually done that, in all the times they have gotten close to this point, he has never actually tried to _stop her_. That was…that was Katarina - her mother - that threatened and cajoled and antagonized her into being an ally instead of an enemy. Any time Liz started to raise her hackles, object to her methods, start to _grow a spine and pull away_ , Katarina would get that glint in her eyes, that shiny, foreboding light that told Liz to tread carefully, that her mother was all too familiar with bargaining for her life, and she would stop at nothing to preserve it.

Even at the cost of her own daughter.

(And Katarina's voice echoes now in her ears, that tinny voicemail recording that, if Liz was perfectly honest with herself - a habit that has long since deserted her - sounded not so much like motherly affection and love and very much more like her signature mocking tone of voice, all taunting and goading, and _all for Red_.)

But here, now, at the end? The man in front of her is showing none of these traits, none of these manipulative, gaslighting tactics she has come to expect from every person she tries to love. He's not begging, not protesting, not even trying to defend himself. He's just standing there looking at her like he's fully and calmly accepted that she is going to be the one to kill him.

(And Liz can't help but wonder if he's always known that she would be the death of him.)

As Liz stands motionless and confused in the center of the small room, her thoughts warring violently with each other in her head, as she tries helplessly to figure out what exactly it is _that_ _she even wants anymore_ , suddenly Red - who has been motionless and silent since his murmured words that started this whole thing - starts to move forward.

He takes slow, sure paces across the room toward her, careful not to startle her as he moves closer with his hands slightly outstretched in a gesture of peace. Liz can only stare, bewildered and confused, as he steps up to her, unable to avoid locking eyes with him as he proceeds to do the very last thing she ever expected.

Very slowly and deliberately, Red moves forward until the barrel of her gun is pressed firmly against his bare chest.

And, with her weapon poised over his heart, he speaks to her again, soft and fervent.

"… _It's okay, Lizzie._ "

And he reaches for her trigger finger himself.

At the sight of his hand moving toward hers, the knowledge that one forced squeeze of a damn finger will send her bullet directly into his heart, the mental image of his body suddenly being propelled backwards and crumpling to the floor, lifeless and bloody, has every part of her reacting the way she always knew deep down that she would.

_(She can't do it.)_

With a frustrated screech borne of all the conflicting emotions bottled up and swirling inside of her, Liz swats his hand anyway, flicks the safety back on, and tosses the gun to the floor like it's burned her, all in one quick series of movements that prefaces the biggest one she's ever made.

Because, before Red can even register what she's done, Liz is catapulting forward into his still outstretched arms, nearly knocking him backward with the force of her hands on his bare chest and her furious lips on his.

(And the dual sensation of his lip where she's caught it between her teeth and the warm skin of his firm chest beneath her fingertips sends her brain until complete overdrive and she can do absolutely nothing but insistently push forward for more.)

Because all the emotion she's been channeling into desperate violence and red hot rage since the day she watched her mother's body be riddled with his bullets and crumple to the ground is pouring out through her lips on his, the culmination of years and years of frustration with him, finally exploding in the way she never wanted to admit it inevitably would. Her mouth is almost violent in its newfound worship of his lips and teeth and tongue, nipping and biting and licking, and she can feel him stumbling backward and gripping her waist to steady himself, trying to hold on and meet her kiss for kiss.

(And, for his part, he does, taking her violent, desperate affection in stride, because what else has he always done? His hands massage her hip and squeeze the back of her neck and work their way up under her beanie to rip it off and tangle in her hair, all as he's making sure her mouth is being thoroughly explored by his tongue and her lips fully worshipped by his own.)

But she can feel him struggling to keep up, a certain lag in his movements, and she remembers a little too late that he's still sick with some mystery illness that leaves him weak and tired, until suddenly she feels his legs run into the bed they've apparently crossed the entire room to reach and he's collapsing under her, falling flat on his back on the bed with her landing heavily on his chest, the impact effectively separating their mouths long enough for her to pull back and get a good look at his swollen lips, blown pupils, and tan, bare chest still underneath her hands.

Liz licks her lips.

Red looks breathlessly up at her.

"I hate you," she mutters without any real feeling, her eyes filling with tears again even as she runs her hand curiously over the smattering of blond and grey hair on his chest.

"I know," he says immediately, no judgement or anger in his voice as he stares up at her, just an intense sadness emanating from his entire being to wash over her.

A few of Liz's tears drip onto his chest as she slips one shirt sleeve gently off his shoulder, examining the wound she inflicted on his upper arm and catching a glimpse of the scars that peek out at her, snaking tantalizingly over the skin of his shoulder.

"…and I love you," she whispers, quiet like a secret, and he responds just as quickly with the same bone-deep sadness as before, his eyes drifting reverently over her face.

"No, you don't…"

" _Yes, I do_ ," she shoots back, letting one finger gently caress the hauntingly familiar texture on the very edges of his scars, watching as her touch makes a shudder run through his body, and feeling in herself the curious sensation of _coming home_.

And she leans down to gently lay her head on his chest.

"That's why I hate you…"

* * *

In the morning, they take that walk he's been wanting, pacing slowly around the lake in the backyard, the early morning sunlight glinting peacefully off the surface of the water - painting a very different picture than the smothering darkness of the night before - and he tells her everything. He tells her about a fire and a mother and a daughter and a life well spent trying to protect her. A life full of mistakes and regrets, but always, _always_ full of love for her.

And as they walk, a pair of swans paddle by on the lake, and Liz remembers the lonely bird calls she heard in the night.

(And she remembers that swans mate for life.)

And as she watches them swim by together, close and content, finally having made it through the darkness to find one another…

She takes Red's hand in her own.


End file.
